


White Honey Clinic

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clinic AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Abortion and Back Alley Medical Procedures, Minor Original Character(s), Omega Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: “I feel I should remind you that actuallygivingGeralt your baby is a bad idea.”"You're just miffed she's not named after you."-Jaskier stumbles into the White Honey clinic looking for help for his newborn, and Geralt ends up with a new receptionist and afamily.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 142
Kudos: 721
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Open Clinic

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a little bit of a breather from writing out the more intense content of Beauty and the Beartrap. 
> 
> There are going to be some less than happy discussions herein--there will be drama--but no actual harm comes to any of our darling cast. I'm not a doctor, I don't even play one on TV, but people also don't have slip 'n slides for bottoms. 
> 
> I have to thank Weary for sitting on voice with me while I was crusading on my bs and catching some wobbles.

Geralt started the White Honey Clinic out of what Yennefer once called an ‘insufferably irrational desire to help people.’ He likes to think of it as using his particular skills to make his community a better place with fewer germs. 

What he ended  _ up  _ doing was patching gunshot wounds for a candy assortment’s worth of gangsters and treating mysterious itches for the high profile elite. In short, everything  _ but  _ what a clinic might usually hope to do in a day’s work. 

Now and then they do get a few really desperate people, unable to pay at some of the nicer, better-funded clinics in town, and for them, Geralt genuinely tries to do all that he can. 

He’s developed a reputation for being incredibly forgiving, cemented after accepting a chicken in payment. His brothers thought this was hysterically funny, but joke’s on them—he has a steady supply of fresh eggs  _ and  _ a pet. Roach is better company than they are, anyway. 

He’s reasonably content to spend a rainy Thursday afternoon chatting with Triss, who’s taken some time away from her own practice to make sure that he’s still alive and not chewing off his own tongue from boredom. She’s too damn nice to be seeing Yennefer. 

He’s keen to tell her so  _ again,  _ right after he finishes off the lemon muffins she’s brought. 

But then there’s a  _ thud  _ at the front door, and she motions for him to  _ stay.  _

“I doubt you’ve eaten anything today.”

She’s right, but he’s not about to let her mother him straight to hell. 

He passes a few moments peacefully, thinking over whether he’s got enough bandages to last the rest of the month with tensions so high in the neighborhood. 

He hears—

“Oh! You’ve got your hands full. Little one’s feeling poorly?”

Geralt straightens up. People rarely bring their children here. The space is affordable largely because it’s tucked into an alley between an adult store and a pawn shop. The neighbors are friendly, but the dumpsters and shadows don’t exactly scream ‘Family Physician.’

A man answers, though his voice is soft. A bit raspy. “She has a fever, I think? She’s so warm.”

“Right, I’ll tell the doctor. She’s so young! You must be— _ Geralt! _ ”

He’s up and moving before Triss can finish calling his name. She’s standing over a brunet with a baby in his arms, shivering in the cool air of the waiting room. His skin is flushed, and breathing seems to be an audible struggle. 

“His skin’s on  _ fire.  _ He thinks it’s the baby.”

“It  _ is _ a baby.” The man frowns. “Does it look like a goat to you?”

“Shit.” Geralt grunts.

Of all the occasions to become a family clinic. 

-

Lambert joked, once, that the only thing that would get an Omega to set foot in White Honey would be an absolute, unmitigated disaster. 

Geralt thinks ‘back alley c-section’ probably ranks right up there. 

-

Jaskier is fairly certain that he’s dead. 

There were brief moments of clarity, in the hazy dark gap between riotous curls and the steady beep of a heart monitor. The cool damp of a wet towel on his forehead, calloused fingers on his shoulders. 

The low rumble of an Alpha, providing comfort. 

No one has done that for him in _ months.  _ Not since he told Valdo. 

But now, it feels like someone is holding his hand. 

The steady beeping continues, and he rather  _ hopes _ he’s dead. There’s no way he can afford the bill. It’s hard enough to afford—

_ Wait.  _

The IV pinches at the delicate skin of his wrist as he bolts upright, but does not—thank the gods—dislodge. He looks around the room, heart nearly clear of his throat and flirting with his tonsils when he spots his daughter nestled in a bassinet by the bed. 

By the Alpha. 

Still holding his hand. 

“I don’t suppose we’re still at the clinic.”

“No.”

“You see, that’s really unfortunate, because there’s no way I can pay for…” He looks over at the IV drip. “Hell, I couldn’t even afford  _ saline. _ ”

“Good thing I’m paying, then.”

It’s a very kind statement that Jaskier still has enough remaining ego to argue over. He’s very good at arguing. Valdo used to find that “charming.” It hasn’t done him a hell of a lot of good since. 

But the Alpha’s eyes sheen over, and he shrinks back. 

“You’re lucky you’ve got your baby still, let alone all your organs. Whoever cut you open was a  _ hack _ .”

That’s harsh. 

“There’s scarring. A lot of it. Your body’s fighting off the infection from the  _ knife _ they used to cut you open. Doubtless unsterilized.”

His face feels hot again. 

“He was all I could afford. I asked…” He tries to say  _ for help  _ but his throat closes up on the words. 

Because for all his popularity, his family, his tilting at fame,  _ no one _ had bothered to help. And Valdo had— 

The Alpha’s fingers tighten around his own. “I’m not angry with  _ you.  _ No one goes to a sawbones because they  _ want  _ to.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to guess you didn’t want them to contact your parents.”

“ _ Fuck. _ Did they?”

“Cut up Omega shows up in the ER with an unregistered newborn and no bond mark? They notified your next of kin right before they called the cops.”

“How long…?”

“An hour or so. They waited until you were stabilized.”

Jaskier tugs at their joined hands, already looking around for his clothes. “I need to leave.”

“You need to stay exactly where you are. If you rip those stitches, you’ll have gone through all of this for nothing.”

“ _ No, _ if my parents get here before I’m  _ gone  _ this will all be for nothing. They’ll take her and have me declared unfit.” He twists wrong, and feels a wave of pain hit him right in the gut. “ _ Ha!  _ I  _ am  _ unfit. Look at me. I can’t even hire the right help. My mother will never shut  _ up _ .”

The Alpha  _ growls,  _ sudden and booming, and Jaskier can breathe through the sudden rising panic. “You did everything you  _ could  _ do. When that didn’t work, you came to the clinic for help.” He stands and finally releases Jaskier’s hand to press him back onto the bed. “Do you want me to help you?”

“I can’t—”

“We’ll work out a payment plan like  _ sane  _ people.  _ Do you want me to help you? _ ”

“Yes, please.” He whispers.

“I have to make a phone call. Triss will be back in a few minutes.”

“Who are you calling?” He looks up from his attempt to reach into the bassinet without searing pain in his abdomen. 

“Lilith herself.”

-

Geralt intended to be back sooner, but it had taken a bit to find a cellphone-friendly area, and a few minutes after that to have a very much needed conversation with the charge nurse. 

By the time he returns to his patient’s room—Julian, according to his license—there’s a well-dressed, middle-aged couple shrieking and scowling at him, respectively. 

If Julian himself had not warned him, he’d have known something was wrong by the scent of distressed Omega souring the air. He bites down a quelling rumble when Mrs. Pankratz hisses, “What were you thinking, Julian? Disappearing like that and then turning up like  _ this.  _ With a  _ baby _ , Julian. Unbonded with a  _ baby. _ ”

“Have you  _ tried _ to contact Valdo?” Mr. Pankratz asks. “He’s been worried sick.”

“ _ He’s _ been worried sick? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for  _ months.  _ Did you think this was a game? You announce you’ve no need of  _ us  _ or the family  _ money,  _ and then you show up ten months later in  _ hospital _ ?”

It’s like a magic trick. 

As Geralt watches, Jaskier grows smaller and smaller, curling in on himself in the bed, fingers grasping again for his daughter, like he can tuck her into his body and shrink and shrink until they’re both invisible and safe. 

“Those are the wrong questions.” Geralt says. 

The Pankratzes straighten up a bit, under observation. Their posture rights itself into a portrait of near-perfection.

Mr. Pankratz, evidently an Alpha of traditional breeding, squares himself with Geralt. 

“Is  _ this  _ the father? Gods, Julian.”

The scent in the room intensifies, distress overlaid with  _ anger _ . 

“‘We’re glad you’re all right, Julian.’ ‘How are you feeling, Julian.’ ‘Thank goodness you’re alive, Julian.” Geralt intones the options as if he were reading off a grocery list, rather than acceptable things to say to one’s hospitalized child. “Your son nearly died. He has a serious infection that  _ could  _ still kill him if he’s not careful, and if you continue to cause him distress  _ I will have you removed.  _ I might anyway, because you’re  _ pissing me off. _ ”

“You can’t speak to me that way.” Mr. Pankratz barks. “We’re his parents. I’m his  _ Alpha. _ ”

“No,  _ I  _ am. It’s on the intake forms. I win.  _ Get out. _ ”

Mrs. Pankratz grows very pale, very quickly. “He  _ is.  _ He  _ is  _ the father. Oh,  _ Julian. _ ”

Geralt does something that he has done perhaps  _ once _ before in his lifetime. Vesemir isn’t here to tell him off, and if he  _ were,  _ Geralt is reasonably certain he  _ wouldn’t _ .

He puts the full force of his Command into his voice and forces them,  _ “ _ **_Out._ ** _ ” _

And so they are. 

-

“If this weren’t such a horrifically questionable situation, I would kiss you right now.”

“Talk shit when you can walk around without vomiting, Julian.”

“Jaskier. Please. Call me Jaskier.”

“Jaskier.” He nods. “I’m Geralt.”

“It’s lovely to meet you when you’re,” Jaskier waves a hand at him, “not a blurry mass of Alpha noises.”

“It’s nice to see you conscious.”

Jaskier nods, stops short, and bites his lip. He tries to fall back into the pillows and aborts that motion, too, hampered by the discomfort of it. “They’ll call Valdo. They think you’re the father, but Valdo’s still my bloody keeper.”

“I don’t like your parents.”

“No one  _ likes  _ my parents, like no one  _ likes  _ being under siege. Eventually, they capitulate.”

“Valdo’s the father?”

“I’ve not slept with anyone else since he started courting me, despite what virtually everyone of note would have you think,  _ including  _ my dearest ex. He’s a sentient garbage bag  _ filled  _ with ego. I hate him. And he’ll sign the damned certificate just so he can spend the rest of our lives reminding  _ everyone  _ of what a  _ generous Alpha  _ he is.”

“A  _ rich  _ generous Alpha.”

“You’ve got the chorus. Well done.”

“Not if I get there first.”

“...What?”

“I said, ‘Not if—’” 

“I heard you, I’m just not entirely certain I’m not hallucinating. Why would you do that?”

“Someone has to be kind to you eventually. I think eventually should start now.”

“You want to be on my child’s birth certificate.”

“If it helps.”

“You want to be the  _ legal father  _ of a  _ stranger’s baby. _ ”

“If the alternative is you mating a selfish bastard who would have let you  _ die _ , I’ll take it.”

“I know basic human decency shouldn’t be so attractive, but I think you might be my type.”

“He’s everyone’s type at first. Then you get to the gooey issue-riddled center.” Yennefer’s heels crack against the floor, whip sharp and driven. “You are... Julian Alfred Pankratz?”

“Jaskier.” Both men correct her. 

“‘Buttercup.’ Cute. Let’s do us all a favor and press that Call button, shall we?”

“I’m sorry. I’m new here. Who are you?”

“Yennefer du Vengerberg, dearest. Your lawyer.”

“Says who?”

Triss alights in the doorway, cheerful as always, with a newborn-safe bear tucked into her arms. “What did I miss?”

“I have a lawyer and a baby daddy, and it’s not even Friday yet.”

“It  _ is  _ Friday.” Yennefer says. 

“Good news all around! What was your name again?”

-

Yennefer’s nails, immaculately manicured, look eerily like claws when she hisses, “You’ve been calling it  _ Baby? _ ”

Renfri winces from behind her clipboard, but Jaskier can see her smile peeking around the edge. 

“I don’t know if he’s caught you up, but I’ve had a life-threatening infection and maybe  _ five hours of sleep _ .”

“You like flower names.” Renfri says, trying very hard to be soothing. “What about Lily? Aster? Rose?”

“Aster. I like Aster.”

She definitely smiles at him then, coming to hand off the certificate and a pen. “Write it there.”

He takes the pen and writes  _ Aster  _ under ‘Name of Child - First,’ then pauses, tapping the butt of the pen against the next box. “Middle name…”

“Emily?” Geralt offers the most common middle name he can think of. 

Jaskier scrunches his nose. “That’s too ordinary.”

“‘The Ripper’?” Yennefer suggests, only to be stopped short at Triss’ disapproving stare. “He named her  _ Baby. _ ”

“What about Aurelia?” Triss offers, coming over to admire the child nestled safely against Jaskier’s chest. The baby makes a very wet gurgling noise into her Oma’s skin. “It was my mother’s name.”

Yennefer assembles the name. “Aster Aurelia Pankratz.”

“Gods, no.” Jaskier shakes his head, only to stop to shush his irritated newborn. “I  _ hate  _ my name. What’s yours?” He tosses the question at Geralt, who looks suddenly nervous. 

“Geralt zi Rivii.”

“Aster Aurela zi Rivii.”

“I feel I should remind you that  actually  _giving_ Geralt your baby is a bad idea.”

Geralt grunts. 

“You’re just miffed she’s not named after you.” Triss giggles.

“She’ll have my unquenchable thirst for vengeance.” Yennefer  _ grins _ , and Jaskier is genuinely looking forward to watching her  _ eat  _ Valdo Marx.

“Really,” Geralt says. “You can name her anything.”

“And I’m choosing to name her after the first person to give  _ enough of a damn  _ to make sure that I was all right while I was  _ melting _ inside. I’m naming her after  _ you _ because everyone  _ else _ I know is cursed.”

“Right.” Renfri says, guiding his hand back to the page. “Aster Aurelia zi Rivii.”

“Gesundheit.” Yenn chirps. 

Jaskier signs the certificate with a malicious sort of glee, and waits for Triss to take  _ Aster  _ before snuggling back down in the pillows. “If I’m unconscious when Valdo gets here, tell him to eat a dick. For once.”

-

Jaskier wakes up, of all things, to Yennefer perched at his bedside, bouncing Aster in her lap and brushing mussed hair from his face. 

He stays  _ very  _ still, until she notices and laughs. 

“Geralt’s gone to find something to eat, and Triss insists on finding those ridiculous gendered candy cigars from the gift shop. I thought I’d take this time to ask you—can you do clerical work?”

Jaskier blinks. “I graduated Oxenfurt summa cum laude, if that helps. Master of the Arts.”

“Fantastic.  _ We  _ need a front desk worker that doesn’t scare people shitless, and  _ you  _ need health insurance.”

“Why are you doing this?”

For a moment or two, Yennefer is quiet, watching him intently. Then, she begins to smile again. “A few years ago, I was you. Or you-adjacent. No little whoopsies for me, though it wouldn’t be  _ bad  _ with—”

“Who the hell are you?”

_ Bloody Valdo. _

He feels his heart attempt to evacuate down through his stomach when Yennefer’s hand rests on his arm. He watches her demeanor transform from what must be a rare moment of emotional intimacy to Soul Devouring Conquerer. She straightens beside him, poised and elegant. “Yennefer du Vengerberg.”

“The lawyer?”

“The same. And you, darling?”

“I’m the  _ father. _ ” Valdo grits his teeth, Command seeping into his tone. Ugh. His Command always  _ did  _ feel oily on Jaskier’s skin. 

“ _ That’s _ your father?” Yennefer gasps. “Either he moisturizes, or you’re vampires.”

“I am the  _ baby’s  _ father.”

“What baby? This baby? This is my goddaughter.”

“Your  _ what _ ?”

“My goddaughter. In the event of some ill tidings befalling  _ both  _ Geralt  _ and  _ Jaskier, Triss and I will take—”

“Who the hell is  _ Geralt _ ?”

“He interrupted me. That’s horribly rude.”

“You should kick him. He has weak ankles.”

“ _ Julian. _ ” Valdo growls.

But before an ounce of Command can curdle against his skin, it’s replaced by the sudden heavy velvet of Yennefer’s Calm echoes:  _ “ _ **_You are unwelcome._ ** ”

Jaskier watches in stunned, delighted horror as Valdo  _ actually vomits.  _

-

Pride is something that Jaskier no longer has time to trifle with, so he’s quick to accept when Triss asks if he’d like to stay with them ‘just until he gets back on his feet.’

He expects Yennefer to object, but she scoffs at him. “You can’t expect us to let you live with  _ Geralt. _ He keeps his pantry stocked with instant oatmeal.  _ Plain. _ ”

“Geralt is a lovely host,” Triss glares at her partner. “But what you need right now is an Omega presence. We’ve got two.”

“We sound like a  _ coupon _ .” Yennefer sighs, but does not stop clapping Aster’s hands together. She coos, now and then, stimulating the baby and giving off comfort. 

Triss forges on, tucking a bit of Jaskier’s unruly hair back behind his ear. “You’ll need someone to stay with you while you recover. Yen and I have flexible schedules.”

“You’re doing too much for me.” Jaskier frowns. “I’m pretty sure.”

Yennefer sniffs. “We’re nice people.” 

“When it suits her.” Geralt sighs. “And then sometimes with implied payback.”

“You made Valdo Marx  _ vomit _ for me. That’s already more than I could ask for.”

“I’m using you for your baby.”

“You  _ are  _ her godmother.”

Yennefer’s eyes  _ actually  _ light up. “Oh, darling. You have impeccable taste.” 

It occurs to him that Aster hasn’t cried in  _ hours.  _

How could he possibly say no?


	2. New Wallpaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier does whatever he can to help around the house until Yennefer outright tells him, “ _Enough._ No one _polishes_ the flatware anymore. What are you doing?”
> 
> “Nothing.” Jaskier says. “That’s the problem!”
> 
> “If you’re well enough to drive _us_ crazy, you should be well enough to torment the patients at the clinic. I’ll call Geralt in the morning.”
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier makes friends and influences the decor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for helping me _finally_ get this out goes to Weary, who yelled at me every time I slithered off to look at wallpaper on Etsy. 
> 
> She came up with the chapter title. 
> 
> I'm really glad you guys like this so far! It's been a big departure from Beartrap. <3

Living with Triss and Yennefer has been a delight, really. 

Yennefer is a designer _cactus_ of a human being, but she adores Aster and she seems reasonably content to bond with him over their combined pettiness and Tim Gunn. He thinks maybe they’re making actual, emotional progress during their time spent on the overstuffed couches, wrapped in hand-me-down quilts. 

Mostly. 

He didn’t expect _Triss_ to be the one he had to worry about. 

She’s a kind woman, patient and understanding, but absolute _murder_ when it comes to keeping him in good physical condition. He feels rather like _he’s_ the baby when she starts extorting him to walk across set distances for baked goods. 

It’s not that he _can’t_ walk, really. His legs are fine. It’s that he constantly feels as if he’s been gut-punched repeatedly and on schedule. Understandably so. 

There was next to no recovery time after the birth—he was up on his feet caring for Aster, and then suddenly in a hospital bed. No in-between. 

It’s been a lot. 

Which is why he thinks it’s perfectly reasonable for him to lay on the floor and _whine_ until Triss gives in and lets him have the stupid brownie. 

Yennefer pokes at him with her bare, pedicured foot. “Look, Aster. A _baby._ ”

“A baby with a _brownie._ What have you got?”

“Self-respect.”

“There’s no chocolate in that. I win.”

-

It’s wonderful to have help caring for Aster. 

He didn’t really have time to enjoy his little girl before. Triss says that she likely picked up his distress during her first days, which would explain how absolutely inconsolable she was. Three months later, she’s an absolute bundle of sunshine and baby toots. 

She’s a remarkably quiet baby, content to be held and smiled at, and occasionally to have raspberries blown on her chubby baby belly. Which they all do. Frequently. 

The issue arrives when he realizes that between them, Triss and Yennefer have amassed an arsenal of baby clothing scaled for the next _three years._

Yennefer has managed to procure a tiny baby motorcycle jacket, a baby walker, and a tiny license plate for the back that reads **_Speed Demon._ **

There is no way on earth he’ll ever be able to pay them back for this. 

“She’s our niece.” Triss beams. “We don’t expect you to.”

And then she kisses him on the cheek. 

“Besides, I make an _ungodly_ amount of money making wealthy men cry. I can spend it on you if I want...to...” Yennefer’s eyes gleam in a way that Jaskier does not like.

“No.” He says, crossing his arms in an ‘x’ before him. “No, you’re not clothing _me_ , too.”

“You have, to account, two (2) pairs sweatpants, three (3) pairs boxers, and one (1) ratty band shirt—”

“It’s _vintage.”_

“ _It’s gaining sentience._ I’ve been folding your boxers—”

“ _I’ve_ been folding his boxers.” Triss interjects.

“Yes, but then you touch me, so we’re all infected.”

“I couldn’t take my parents’ money, and they haven’t given a rat’s about me in _years_. I don’t feel right taking yours.”

“The difference is that we _like_ you. And I pamper people I like.”

There are a few moments of quiet as Jaskier tries very hard not to blush. “Can I help pick some of it out?”

“If you’re feeling up to it, certainly!” Triss seems _genuinely delighted_ at the idea of hauling him around different baby stores. He wonders if she’ll bring cake to dangle in front of his face. 

-

It’s nice, to have a safe, warm, loving place to stay and a tiny human that giggles hysterically when she sees him. And hugs _all the time,_ because Triss says they’ll help with her cognitive development. 

But it does get a little tedious, not having much of anything to _do._

Sometimes he reads, watches television. Occasionally, he’ll catch himself composing and it won’t hurt _quite_ as much to remember what he’s given up.

He does whatever he can to help around the house until Yennefer outright tells him, _“Enough._ No one _polishes_ the flatware anymore. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier says. “That’s the problem!”

“If you’re well enough to drive _us_ crazy, you should be well enough to torment the patients at the clinic. I’ll call Geralt in the morning.”

Part of Jaskier wants to argue, because he rather thought they had been _about_ to.

But then Triss urges him to go sit on the couch while the tea finishes steeping, and then they can all watch Nailed It! together. 

So Jaskier _does_ actually have a job. 

-

Surprisingly, the White Honey Clinic is _exactly_ as drab as Jaskier remembers it being. Which is impressive, because he mostly remembers it as a very warm _blur._

There are no paintings on the walls. Just a few uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs and a shelf with a copy of _The Odyssey_ on it. There _is_ one couch, but it looks rather like it longs for the Ikean homeland, and the comically low coffee table before it is burdened with a chaotic flood of out of date magazines with titles like **Goat Fancy** and **Emus Today & Tomorrow. **

“No.” He frowns, reaching into the Pile. 

He comes back with an issue of **Highlights** with horns drawn onto one of the children frolicking in the snow. 

“Children don’t come here.” Triss says, diplomatically. 

“It’s not so bad.” Jaskier insists. “It just needs a bit of tidying up. Some color, maybe. And chairs that weren’t stolen from a penitentiary.”

“You have ideas?” She smiles. 

“ _Maybe._ ”

“If you get anything nice, we have to Scotchgard it.” Geralt says, emerging from the back. 

“It can’t be so bad…”

“I searched ‘black couch’ on Craichslist because it doesn’t show bloodstains.”

Again, Jaskier frowns. “ _No._ ”

-

Contrary to every unsupportive thing his close family has ever said, Jaskier _is_ , in fact, capable of both logical reasoning and operating a computer to a reasonable degree of success. 

He’s anticipating this. 

He is not anticipating a filing system from yesteryear, comprised of multiple lovingly used file cabinets and a neon green Filofax near bursting with hastily-inserted post-its. The pen tucked into the loop has a smiley face on a spring attached to the end. 

“Her name is Bertha.” Geralt says helpfully, as if there is not a mysterious screaming noise in Jaskier’s head, and begins walking him through the most archaic organizational system the younger man has ever seen. 

He would not be terribly surprised if the doctor were to produce a typewriter and declare it his prescription pad. 

“We get a lot of... _private_ people in here.”

Criminals. He stitches up criminals. Jaskier has watched enough horrible police dramas to get that.

Geralt pulls the patient sign-in ledger over from its perch by the service bell at the front of the desk. Jaskier is going to throw _that_ in the garbage at the earliest possible opportunity.

He blinks down at— 

Patient Name Arrived Appt Time  
Evlis Parsley 11:23 PM NO

“‘Evlis—’”

“It’s best not to ask for ID.” 

“Okay.”

“You’ll do well.” Geralt promises. 

Jaskier has no idea what gives him that idea, but he’s certainly going to try. 

-

So he doesn’t ask for ID.

He does, however, borrow some cash from Yennefer—much to her sadistic delight—to purchase a candy dish, some lollies to fill it, and a bouquet of grocery store flowers that would have given his mother _fits._

He has ideas about posters. In fact, he’s using the concerningly old computer to look some up, but it’s a process. Sometimes it makes a screaming noise so close to a high C that he can’t help but try to [ harmonize ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNf2JVfvDZQ).

So he’s frowning at the screen, wondering what kind of demonic bargain Geralt made to get Wifi to interface with Yon Ancient Box of Misery when a man comes in and blinks at him. 

He’s very tall, and built no little bit like he’s come to kill the Batman. There is an actual _dent_ in the top of his bald head—like someone brained him with something _sharp_ and he lived to eat them. 

And he’s frowning at Jaskier. 

“You’re new.”

Jaskier frowns, then. “ _Do you come here often?_ ” 

A small, sharp smile. “Yeh. Get hurt a lot in my line of work.” 

Jaskier genuinely cannot imagine anything short of an anti-tank missile being a threat to this man, but okay. He tries to smile back. “I _am_ new. I’m Jaskier. Go ahead and fill out the sign-in sheet for me. If you have your insurance card I can try to convince the computer that it isn’t devil magic.”

Wider smile. 

Oh. Oh, he’s not supposed to ask for ID. 

“Gonna need your help with that.”

Like an idiot—an _absolute godsforsaken moron—_ he asks, “Why?”

And the man holds up one hand wrapped up in a darkly-stained bandana, followed by the other, _holding his disembodied finger._

“Melitele’s tits. Please hold.”

“I am.”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

He runs to find Geralt. 

-

His name is Letho, Geralt says, but Jaskier fills out the form under one Mick E. Mouse and does not scream. 

On the way out, the human tank lingers by his desk. 

Jaskier looks up at him, doing his best to square up before an Alpha more ripped than the Terminator. “Everything all right?”

Letho wiggles his fingers in a wave, heavily-sutured digit bobbling along. “I probably need a shitload of Advil.”

“Right…” Jaskier nods. Bites his lip. “Would you like a lolli?”

This time when Letho smiles, it’s real. “Got any blue ones?”

-

The next time Letho comes in, the dominant wall has gone from a depressing taupe to a brightly colored mural. 

“What.” He says. 

“It’s peel and stick wallpaper. I found it on Etsy.” Jaskier smiles. “What piece are you missing today?” 

“None. Got shot.”

“Danger Days in Disneyland. Blue again?”

“Orange.” 

“Help yourself. _Geralt!_ ”

-

“It’s real nice in here since you came. Guess it’s the Omega touch.”

“Oh, no. I think it’s mostly a nagging impulse to explore my new freedom by buying things that would absolutely _infuriate_ my mother.” He looks up from frowning at Bertha, the neon of her cover sending little purple spots skittering across his vision. “I’d tell you to take better care of yourself, but I think nights would be very lonely without you.”

“You’re getting better about the blood. That’s good.”

Letho ruffles Jaskier’s hair on his way to the back.

-

It’s almost a surprise when people start coming in _without_ questionable itching or mysterious holes they do not wish to discuss. 

Letho is an abrupt introduction to worst case scenarios, but after him, it isn’t terribly difficult to talk a terrified Omega through a pregnancy scare. (Negative) It leaves a strange taste in his mouth, but the relief in her eyes and the line of her shoulders lightens something in his chest.

After that, a few more kids from the college start coming in. 

One or two recognize him, tell him how sorry they are that he hasn’t played at this or that crappy venue in a while. He misses it a bit, wonders if he might sneak back some evening, and then remembers that Valdo _also_ liked ‘slumming it’ at those same dives. 

“I got a job.” He laughs. “Sign in here.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but slowly he adjusts the decor to feel less like he’s sitting inside someone else’s depressive episode. 

Between patients, he chats with Geralt. 

Grim, quiet Geralt, who asks him very patiently how he’s adjusting, how Aster is, whether Yennefer has replaced all of his clothing with brand names yet. 

“She’s about to fight me for my sweats, but I’ve finally got them just the right sort of ratty.”

Geralt hums. He understands. 

-

He edges closer and closer, over time, as if he’s slowly ascertaining his welcome within Jaskier’s personal bubble. 

It’s awkward, but sweet. 

Jaskier isn’t so put off of Alphas as a whole that he’d cut and run. (If he were, Letho would have sent him shrieking from the building.) But it’s nice to know that _his_ comfort is being taken into consideration. 

And he’d have to be _blind_ not to appreciate having such an attractive man pay attention to him this way. 

So he smiles, and he laughs, and he teases, “You know, you really ought to come see your child.”

He’s probably hallucinating the flush on Geralt’s cheek. “Maybe.” He says. 

Like Yennefer would give him any other option. 

-

Geralt takes one look at Aster in her tiny motorcycle jacket and smiles wide enough to crack his pretty face. He stands her up on his lap, holding her gently under the arms, and lets her smush his cheeks together.

At which point she realizes he has _stubble_ , and proceeds to entertain herself by scratching uselessly at his cheeks and making tiny growling noises. 

“I didn’t know babies could _make_ that noise.” Yen sighs. “I thought she was possessed.”

“She’s just trying out a new sound.” Geralt says. “She likes the way it rattles.” And then he growls _back_ and she bursts into delighted giggles. 

_Oh, no_. Jaskier thinks.

-

Triss helps him bake cookies to take in to work, and does not tease him too much. 

She leaves that to her douche girlfriend. 

-

Word of mouth is definitely spreading about the clinic now that it’s brightened up a bit. 

The plants Jaskier has placed out in the alleyway certainly don’t hurt. 

Geralt had watched _that_ happen with an arched brow and crossed arms. But it had been simple enough to shoo him off with a, _“Let me have this.”_

He buckles the first time a woman comes in with her eight-year-old, complaining of strep, and the child insists on paying Geralt with a horse she’s made out of Play-Doh. 

So it’s becoming more and more common to have patients at _normal_ hours, these days. Jaskier doesn’t look up when the chimes above the door jingle brightly, so consumed with convincing the computer that a game of solitaire won’t _kill it._

__

“What the _hell_ …?” There’s a broad-shouldered man with a hooked nose _squinting_ at the new poster on the wall. “Did Geralt get Punk’d?”

“Omega’d.”

“Fuck the what?”

“I’m Jaskier. Are you a regular?” He frowns. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding. Are you bleeding internally? Do we have the supplies for that?”

“No?”

“Oh. Itching, huh?”

“Oh, piss off. When did he get a receptionist?”

“‘Round the same time he got a child.” Jaskier tries for levity, and watches the man go very, very pale. 

“ _Geralt!_ **_What the fuck?!_ **”

-

His name is Lambert, and he is Geralt’s brother. 

If Geralt hadn’t _told_ him, Jaskier would likely be able to guess from the sheer amount of shit Lambert proceeds to give the other Alpha. 

“ _He asked me if I itched,_ Geralt.” Lambert huffs. “Receptionists aren’t supposed to _do_ that. I have better bedside manner, and my patients are _dead_.”

“In my defense, I’m very new.” Jaskier says. “And also, ew.”

“He’s a mortician.” Geralt defends. 

“You asked if I’m a regular. Doctors don’t have _regulars_.”

“We do.” Geralt grunts. “We just call them addicts.”

Lambert hisses. “ _Not to their faces.”_

“Letho doesn’t mind it.”

“ _Letho?_ He recognizes _Letho_ , but not me?”

Geralt shrugs. “Letho’s been getting cut up a lot.”

Jaskier pantomimes a fountain of blood. “I think you could cut his head off, and he wouldn’t notice. He’s half my candy budget.”

“He’s an _asshole._ Why are you buying him _candy?”_

“I wasn’t buying _him_ candy. I was buying _everyone_ candy. Wouldn’t you want a lollipop if someone cut bits of you off?”

“... _Who the fuck—”_

_-_

“So wait. Let me...let me just—” Lambert makes a noise not dissimilar to the hell sounds Aster’s been trying on lately. “He shows up with a baby.”

“Newborn.”

“ _Same thing._ You managed to get cut open by some discount Frankenstein in a back alley and _survive_ with _both kidneys_ , and you came here—”

“I heard good things.”

“Your judgement is shit.”

 _“Lambert_.” Geralt warns. 

“It _is._ He should’ve gone to an ER. He could’ve _died._ ”

“I couldn’t afford it…”

Lambert makes a pained noise. “That’s the face, isn’t it? Melitele’s tits. That’s how you ended up with a baby.”

He hides his face briefly in his hand, glances up at Jaskier again, and takes a deep breath, a kinder look in his eye. “Okay. Okay, so you came to Geralt for help.”

“And he took me to the hospital.”

“Of course he did.” Lambert nods. “He’s _Geralt._ ”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “He woke up after they stitched him up again, but they’d already contacted his next of kin.”

“So…?”

“My parents. They, ah...don’t approve. Of me, generally speaking, but especially me with a baby and no Alpha.”

“So the dad is…?”

“An unmitigated fuckheel.” Jaskier hisses. 

Geralt, bless him, adds, “We don’t like him.”

“Right. Fuck ‘im. We got him handled yet?”

“Yennefer made him sick all over himself, so now I think he’s too afraid to try anything.”

Lambert blinks. “Yennefer likes you?”

Jaskier frowns, but Geralt gives a confident, “ _Yes._ He’s staying with Yen and Triss.”

“So they’ve met the baby.”

“Yes.”

“The baby you haven’t told your family about.”

Geralt sighs. “ _Yes_.”

“Not even a group text.”

 _“Y e s._ ”

“So...Dad doesn’t know.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

-

“Hey, Dad?”

…

“Wasn’t me this time.”

…

“Geralt got himself a baby mama.”

…

“Okay, yeah. That was rude. I—no, you’re—okay.” 

He draws the phone away from his ear, looking a bit wrong-footed, and taps the speakerphone button before setting it on the table. 

“Right.” ‘Dad’ says. “Geralt?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“I think Lambert must be _shitting_ me, because he’s a _bastard_ and I could _swear_ you were the one with a brain.”

Lambert winces.

“ _Because if anyone would knock someone up and not tell their gods damned Oma, he’s the first I would pick, Geralt._ ”

“Yes, Sir.”

“ _So is he shitting me,_ Geralt? Is your brother _shitting me_ ? Or _are you an asshole,_ Geralt?”

Geralt looks about ready to vault the table and murder Lambert. 

Jaskier clears his throat. “It wasn’t him, Sir. He just, ah...took responsibility.”

“It’s your baby?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Jaskier.”

“Buttercup, mm? That’s sweet. Are you sore at all? Need anything?” His voice takes on the soothing purr of Calm—a sound he’d _kill_ to have heard from his mother, not so long ago. 

It’s nice. 

“Oh, no Sir. I gave birth seven months ago now.”

“Seven months?”

Jaskier hears a sharp hissing breath in, and watches Geralt squeeze his eyes shut. 

“It’s been very busy?”

“Sweetheart, I need you to move away from the phone.”

Jaskier sits with his legs crossed up half-under him, hovering over the phone in the middle of the table, blinking at the stream of invectives ringing out over the speaker. 

Lambert, looking genuinely remorseful, leans in to hit the mute button. “You, uh...probably don’t need to be here for this bit.”

“Right.” Jaskier nods. “I’m going to go recept.”

“Sure.” Geralt says, leaned back in his chair, hand covering his eyes. “Break a leg.”

-

The rest of the day is blissfully uneventful, barring Geralt being a walking nerve until he finally caves and takes some Aspirin. 

Lambert sticks around looking horribly apologetic until Jaskier ropes him into helping with the refiling. Watches Jaskier with the patients that filter in and out.

Around four, a little boy no more than six comes in with his mother. He’s clearly nervous, sniffling at the thought of seeing the doctor, and Jaskier goes to his knees before his chair. Tiny sneakered feet kick back and forth, and Jaskier smiles and rests his hand on chubby baby ankles. 

“Hey there, it’s not so bad.”

“I don’t wanna get shot.” The boy whines. 

“Not _shot_ , Ioseph. _A_ shot.”

“Berthold says they gotta _stab_ you for those!”

His mother sighs, but Jaskier only smiles wider. “Is Berthold your friend?”

Ioseph brightens up. “Yeah! My best friend! He can jump really high and he knows the best places to find rolie polies.”

“That’s so cool! You know, I work with _my_ best friend.” 

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. His name is Geralt, and he makes people feel better when they’re sick. That’s what the shot is for—to make sure you don’t get sick.”

“ _Really?”_

“Yep.” Jaskier holds out his hand, motioning for the boy’s arm, and pokes gently just under his shoulder. “He takes a needle and sticks it right here -bip!- and it teaches your body how to fight off bad germs.” 

Ioseph frowns up at his mother. “But it’ll _hu~urt._ ”

“Not for very long, Io.” She smiles. “And then you’ll be _super strong_ and ready to fend off those bad germs, so you can play outside instead of staying in with the sniffles.”

“Right. I got all my shots, and look at me now!” Lambert adds, grinning. “I’m unstoppable.”

Ioseph narrows his eyes at him, and Lambert obliges him with a truly ridiculous series of muscle flexes. 

“All this brought to you by getting shots and eating my vegetables.”

Behind her son’s back, Ioseph’s mother beams and gives them a double thumbs’ up. 

-

Ioseph occupies himself with running around the room, making superhero noises as his mother settles up with Jaskier. Lambert chuckles as he continues his filing. 

“You know, the two of you are really very good with children. Do you have any of your own?”

Jaskier flushes bright red. “Oh, no—we’re not.”

“His ‘best friend’ is my brother.” Lambert winks. “I’m the uncle.”

There is no logical reason that sentence should _feel_ like a warm hug. 

But it does.

-

Lambert joins them at Yen’s place after work, following Geralt through a series of near-red lights.

“Still pissed?” Jaskier asks, bracing one hand on the ‘oh shit’ bar. 

“Always pissed. Lambert’s an asshole.”

“On a scale of 1 to Valdo Marx…”

Geralt curls his lip. “3. That’s a shit benchmark. ‘From a scale of 1 to Actually Satan…’”

“I don’t sound like that!” Jaskier laughs. 

“You do. You’ve got a sweet voice.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, turning into the vent to cool off his _face_. “I, um...used to sing.”

“You should start again. Babies are good practice.”

“Yeah. ...yeah.” 

-

“Oh, hell.” Lambert says as Aster is deposited in his arms. “Oh, no. _Look at you. Who told you you could be this cute?!_ ”

“She’s beautiful.” Geralt agrees. 

“With her Oma’s eyes, _look at that_!” He pauses for a moment to let Aster stick her hands in his mouth and tug on his cheeks. “Oo’ ‘a uuuu!”

Triss snorts. “She’ll rip your tonsils out, if you’re not careful.”

“Ueeeh.” He extracts her tiny fists and wipes them off with his shirt. “She can have ‘em! Geralt, _how did you not tell us about her sooner_. If I had a kid like this, I’d announce her to the entire shitting Pride Lands.” He hoists her into the air. “Simbaaaaaaa.”

“She’s not _really_ mine.” Geralt sighs. “It didn’t seem right to go around crowing about it. Just helping out in a shitty situation.”

He’s been coming around more and more, lately. 

Giving Aster love and kindness. 

Being exactly the sort of Alpha that Jaskier desperately _wishes_ he’d had. The kind he could share with his little girl. 

So it doesn’t really surprise him that those words carve out an ugly hole in his stomach. He laughs, nervously. 

“Anyone want takeaway? I um...could go for some noodles.”

Everyone seems generally amenable, so he slips around the corner to grab the phone. 

He misses the sudden sharp hiss Lambert lets out, hugging Aster against him as he glares bloody murder at his brother. “Did you see his _face_ ? If you think _I’m_ the screwup, I can play it back for you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! 
> 
> It's Lambert!

**Author's Note:**

> I require mindless fluff to operate.


End file.
